Moonfall
by terriku
Summary: Blood-soaked and rain drenched, that is how Leona imagines she will find Diana.


I know Riot has an official stance on Leona and Diana's relationship but I choose to ignore it. Nothing is as beautiful and angsty as childhood friendship gone wrong.

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i.

Blood. Red on silver. Silver. Silver like the color of Diana's hair in the moonlight. She wanted to touch Diana, she wanted to return to the days when they could braid each other's hair she wanted-

_Blood_. She reminds herself. Blood. Red as dawn and dark as night. Diana had dyed herself in blood and she must repent. She must pay. That is the way of the law, the absolute justice of the sun. She is steel. She is iron. She is the unrelenting sun. She is and she must become this, for if there is anything left in the world for the Solari to believe in, it is her, it is the Chosen of the Sun.

She is strong. She is steel. She is iron. She is the sun. She repeats this to herself.

The metal on her head sits like a prison, and Leona has never felt its weight like she has on this day. It is heavier than she can bear, this golden symbol. She lifts her sword, her shield, and the weight is too much. It is foreign, though the objects themselves were familiar. She did not need anyone to tell her it is duty which makes them heavy. She knows it well.

Strong. Steel. Iron. The Sun.

She knows.

ii.

They are reflections across a dark mirror, two halves of one whole. Two sides of one coin. One cannot exist without the other, yet they cannot exist together. While one rises, the other must sink. Diana slinks through the shadows, intent on a path of loneliness and Leona finds herself thrust to the top, set upon a path of leadership. Neither has asked for the role, yet each is unwilling to part with their allotted fates. Equilibrium lies beyond the reach of their reality.

She thought of Diana with her silver-hair, her quiet gray eyes. Diana, with her fierceness, her thirst for justice, her questioning nature. She thought it would be hard to reconcile this Diana from her memories with the new Diana. The Diana, risen like the moon in full glory, with a blade that cleaved through the sun. But she could. It was not hard. It was not Diana that had changed. Diana was still fierce and she still loved justice, foreign, cold and brutal concept that it was. Leona remembered the look in Diana's eyes on that day and it reminded her of the indignant little girl who asked too many questions.

It is Leona she does not recognize. Leona with the sunset hair. Leona with the bright eyes, with all the gentleness and goodness of a child who did not understand the world. Sometimes she looked to Pantheon, looked to him to see what he still saw of value in her. His eyes reflected only the Chosen of the Sun, all tall and proud and golden with a sword that sought the moon. She could no longer find sun-kissed Leona in Pantheon's eyes. She saw duty, not friendship. She looked for fondness and only saw respect.

In the end, Diana had found herself, and it was she who was twisted with knowledge, burden, responsibility, and destiny. It is, in a rather distasteful and ironic way, rather fitting. She laughs and laughs and clutches her face and forces herself not to cry.

iii.

The cold blade rests lightly against her neck. If she closes her eyes, she can believe that this is a dream, and it is a comb that Diana holds to her neck. If she closes her eyes, if she forgets everything, then she can believe that. She wants to believe it.

"Diana—"

The blade bites into her neck, she shuts her eyes and draws a breath.

"Don't speak. You don't have the right."

If she dreams, then it is only pear juice that runs down her neck. It is the nectar of a fruit far too ripe, stolen from the trees of Mount Targon by two mischievous girls. Pantheon trails behind them, too honorable to partake in such thievery but too kind to let them off by themselves. They were thick as thieves, closer than brother and sisters could ever be. Their laughter fills the air.

It is so silent Leona can hear the wind, can almost hear the drop of blood trace its way down the razor sharp edge of Diana's blade.

Red. Red on silver. Red on gold. Silver moon, golden sun, both etched with red. Blood like two twining rivers meeting once again at the end of all things.

If this is the end, then she can accept it.


End file.
